


haven't thought this through

by euphania



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: 6k of danatole is enough for one lifetime i'd say, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Unrequited Love, a liberal use of dashes and semicolons, or is it???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7327468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kuragin-Rostova affair, from the point of view of Fyodor Dolokhov, hopelessly in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. haven't thought this through

**Author's Note:**

> this is it y'all. i haven't written this much for one thing in YEARS. as always, with any writer, i have my misgivings, but. here it is. and i love it. and i love fedya.
> 
> notes:
> 
> \- the main chapter is The Official Story, but the other two are there cause ~bonus content!!!~ aka stuff i wrote for this that i liked but didn't want to put into the main story. chapter 2 is the alternative ending and chapter 3 is anatole's original looooooove letter to natasha. it's bad.  
> \- i use french pretty sparingly and i don't think any of it needs a translation but if it does lemme know!  
> \- "le terrible dragon" is a. very accurate term to describe marya dmitrievna.

 

**I.**

“Do you see the young Countess Rostova tonight?” Anatole asked, setting his fingers on the top of Dolokhov’s hand. Dolokhov’s stomach dropped. Electricity bounced across where their skin met.

 _"Quelle femme, quelle femme,”_ Anatole whispered, his words like flame. Dolokhov took a deep breath in.

 _This is not an uncommon occurrence,_ he reminded himself. _Anatole and women go together like Russia and the cold. Composure._

The opera itself was… exquisite. It could hardly be considered _good,_  with a senseless plot; however the haunting, piercing voices of the actors created a hazy, intoxicated feeling in the room that was almost wonderful.

Dolokhov did not concern himself too much with the opera, in any matter; Anatole’s fingers stayed rested atop Dolokhov’s—a simple lack of attention, nothing intentional, he knows—and concentration seemed petty. Meaningless as it was, it relaxed Dolokhov, an assurance of and anchor to reality as the world smeared into a silver mess on stage. A knife glistened in flashing lights and something like blood scattered across the stage.

The opera finished with a shrill, wobbly note so high it could break the chains of the women’s jeweled necklaces. At once, everyone was afoot, cries of “Bravo!” echoing across the room, overjoyed, more so at the opera’s completion than it itself.

After the audience calmed, Anatole swaggered over to Natasha, having no hesitations in making her bare neck turn red and her world turn upside down. She stared at him with large eyes, a deer viewed through the crosshairs of a rifle. His smile bared his teeth and his lips dripped charm; Anatole kissed her hand and she held back a gasp.

Dolokhov watched them from across the room, his teeth clenched and his eyebrows furrowed; hot green envy and blue jealousy blazed in his stomach, jealousy and envy about everything in general and everything very specific.

Just then, Hélène came up beside him, without any indication of being anywhere near him before the matter—a thing Hélène had a knack and tendency for doing—and watched Anatole and Natasha carefully. She put a hand on Dolokhov’s shoulder, feeling him tense as Anatole grinned again at the girl, wolf-like and handsome.

“Maybe he will give it up early,” Dolokhov stated blankly, still looking at the pair, poignant wanting flashing in his eyes. Hélène gave a sad smile.

“Compose yourself, Fedya. We both know my brother—stubborn.” She paused, pursing her lips, her eyes filled with attracted curiosity as she eyed Natasha, glittering in her white dress. “Such a shame; she is a charming girl, of the highest class. So beautiful. He doesn’t deserve her.”

“And you do?”

Hélène let out a light laugh.

“Fedya, dear, all three of us deserve to die alone, but we both know that prevents nothing.”

They stood in silence until Anatole rejoined them with small stars in his eyes, raving and raving about her beauty, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her _feet_. They watched him with increasingly stiffening, unreadable faces.

“I will make love to her—no, more so, I will _have her._ We must be together. I cannot stand to let her slip away.” Anatole read their blank expressions blissfully, eyes darting back and forth between them. “How do you like the sound of an _elopement?”_

Dolokhov restrains himself from any outward reaction, but Hélène, ever unafraid, gives a bitter laugh.

“You’re an idiot.”

“She must be mine,” Anatole insisted, with the look of someone who becomes more and more convinced of their own ludicrous ideas as they speak them. “An elopement would be perfect, you know…”

“You’re married,” Hélène countered, “and you have not even kissed her, advanced on her.”

“It will be hush-hush; that way, it won’t matter whether it’s valid or not—and give it time, sister, you know my charm.”

Anatole stared at them with indignation.

“Oh, neither of you understand what it’s like, to want but to not have. It is hell.”

Dolokhov made a noise akin to a cough and a snort, stuck in his throat. Anatole had never been _this_ motivated about a girl before; never before had he seriously spoken of an _elopement,_ and after twenty minutes with her _,_ oh, God, oh, God...

Hélène pointedly found his hand from behind his back and squeezed it reassuringly. “Composure. It will be fine,” she seemed to say. Her skin was soft and her nails were sharp. He breathed in through his nose, stiffly.

“Nothing good can come of this,” she warned.

“You don’t understand, you don’t understand. I don’t care what you think, I just need you to _help_ me.”

Dolokhov turned to face Hélène; they looked at each other, a non-verbal conversation passing between them. Hélène’s eyes were round, her face folded into pity.

“Hélène. Fedya. Please.”

Hélène sighed, resigned. A grin blew over Anatole’s face. He rushed to embrace the two, shoving them all together into a mess of Hélène’s rose perfume and their uniform buttons. Anatole’s muffled “thank you” was pressed against Dolokhov’s shoulder.

_Composure._

 

 **II.**  

The bullet _hurt._ Dolokhov was not surprised by that, not at all, but this was not a duel he believed he would truly suffer in. The unexpected pain shot stars into his vision as he swayed where he stood. He could not die—his mother, his angel-mother, she would be so lost if she saw him like this; he could not die, to die would be parricide, but the wound was quite deep, the pain quite strong.

“Take him away,” a feminine voice stated, and there were warm arms around him, blonde hair— _Anatole_ —and the pain was suddenly easy.

“Oh, Fedya…” Anatole muttered into his ear. Dolokhov turned his head towards the voice. Anatole’s eyes were scared, wide, and Dolokhov likened their blue to the rivers in spring before the pain lapsed again and he was pulled under.

 

Dolokhov was stitched, bandaged, disinfected with alcohol, and settled in bed before evening, though the tightly-shut curtains suggested it was much later. He lay, feverish and unconscious, in a Kuragin bed, with Hélène and Anatole as company. Hélène, curled like a cat, rested in an armchair at the corner of the room; Anatole sat by the bed, arm on Dolokhov’s, hand resting atop the other’s. His leg tapped against the carpet nervously, his bitten lip swollen. Hélène was more collected, knees pulled up onto her chair. There was a heavy silence between them.

Abruptly, Dolokhov stirred, sweat slick on his face, tossing his head against the pillow, turning his hand so he and Anatole’s palms were pressed together. As he calmed, their fingers intertwined lazily. Dolokhov let out a softer breath—softer than the ragged panting, almost a contented sigh. Anatole was focusing heavily on the tapestry on the right wall, pretending to hardly notice, but his eyebrows, previously furrowed, relaxed; his features opened, the stress fading away. Hélène shifted in her seat, watching the exchange with a careful eye.

 _“Il t’aime, tu vois,”_ Hélène remarked, looking at Anatole with a stern and knowing expression. Anatole turned, looking at her with a curious, tense-again face.

“I can see it quite well. It’s just like any Russian lady—the wide eyes, the dreamy air, the easy smiles. Don’t worry, to an outsider it is nothing, but we both have known Fedya since childhood. He cannot hide it from me.”

Anatole said nothing, looking away from his sister’s glinting eyes. Hélène cocked her head, leaning towards him.

“You do not love him, not like that, now do you, Anatole? Then again, I would never know how to tell. It is not like you have ever  _truly_ been in love, yet your hands… this is a cruel game you are playing.”

Anatole was still silent. Hélène’s eyes narrowed, frustrated at the lack of reaction.

“I have just told you that your closest friend is in love with you, and you say nothing? You should know by now that I do not care about that, but I do care about him. You are hurting Fedya, doing things like this, leaning into his touch when you feel nothing. He would die for you so easily. It is not going to magically get better; this could ruin your friendship. You cannot ignore it.”

“It is no matter!” Anatole exclaimed, his grasp around Dolokhov’s hand tightening. “Maybe I feel something for him, maybe—maybe I don’t. Regardless, it is no matter and I do not want you prying. He can deal for himself. If he has done so this far, why not longer?”

“Because _Natasha_ , because you are planning to elope with this girl, and making him help you, and on top of all of this, you act like you are finally recipro—fine,” Hélène suddenly withdrew, shrinking back into her seat. “Do not let me help you.”

Anatole looked at her, distressed, biting his red lip again. His thumb dragged across Dolokhov’s.

“You should leave,” he proposed.

“We should sleep.”

“I am not leaving this room until he wakes.”

Hélène threw her hands into the air in defeat, or perhaps exasperation, and stood up, hugging her bare arms around herself. She stood by the door, watching Anatole closely before setting a hand on the knob.

“Good night, brother.”

 

**III.**

Russian society is always full of duties, and that includes social hours, so Dolokhov and Hélène both stayed through the Bezukhovs ball, regardless of their own wishes.

They watched Natasha and Anatole whenever they could. Hélène flitted around the rooms, flashing her faultless smiles and her acceptable, charming conversation, always with an eye on the two; Dolokhov, apathetic to public appearances, and never really known to be a warm guest in any manner, kept to the sides. He tried his hardest to blend into the folds of the curtains, to fade away and out of this moment; even Hélène, ever the _plus belle dame du soir_ , was wearing more muted notes, her pearls gleaming less boldly, as if in some grievance herself. She classically came up beside Dolokhov, causing him to start; her eyes were still set on Natasha and Anatole, but they hardly could have noticed.

Natasha and Anatole were in a glittering world of their own. The pair danced electrically, the air seeming to buzz and fill with static as they lilted through it. Glass figures in a music box. Their movements were precise, without fault, but young fear shone in Natasha’s face.

“Are you all right?” Dolokhov asked her as Anatole twirled Natasha.

“Oh, I will be, that’s for sure,” Hélène dismissed him easily, “but she is so beautiful, so enchanting. It would have been nice. Lord knows I would have treated her more kindly than my idiot brother.”

“You would still be an illicit lover.”

“An illicit lover with morals,” Hélène said, taking a gentle sip from her sparkling drink—the third one of the night, alcohol swirled in both their stomachs—and giving a thin-lipped smile.

“Do not act as if you two would be any more reasonable in this society.” She spoke with the glass still at her lips; Dolokhov gave a thick sigh.

“ _Marriage._ What’s in a marriage?”

She shrugged.

“Not much. Money.”

At this moment, Hélène’s eyes widened, her jaw stiffening. Dolokhov’s eyes darted back to Natasha and Anatole; Natasha had rushed out of the room, Anatole following her quickly.

“He will ruin her,” Hélène said out loud, almost in awe, stepping towards where they had gone. Dolokhov followed, pushing through the red and gold crowds of people, and through the angles of the doors and the walls they could finally see the pair again, in the corner of the study with door flung open for any happening eyes. They were so close, Natasha and Anatole, so close, and oh, _God._

There was a burning sensation in Dolokhov’s gut, a kind of flame that flashed in an unusual, defeating way. He felt the urge to curl around it, to try to ebb the dread in any way, but it stayed.

It stayed long after, a slow, grating feeling, stayed as Dolokhov left the ball in a haze. It stayed as he tried to find sleep, sleep to pause the churning of the room and of his stomach, and it stayed when he awoke, head pounding, innards still twisting, his dreams replaying in his head. Natasha and Anatole, Anatole and Natasha, enveloped in each other, nothing but them. Oil figures in a painting.

Composure. Composure. _Composure._

 

 **IV.**  

“I need you to write me a love letter.”

“Pardon?”

It took all of Dolokhov’s control to keep his voice steady, though the expression on his face revealed all of his surprise. He was sitting, reading some book of no significance at the Kuragin home, the words blending together at his lack of attention; Anatole paced across the room, as he tended to do when in thought, not looking at him. A pile of paper and ink was strewn across the desk.

“A love letter. For Natasha, of course.”

“Can you not write one of your own?” Dolokhov sighed, his stomach turning. _Lord, don’t make this even more painful for me._

“I’ve been trying, but damn it all, I have never been a wordsmith.”

“Tell me what you have now,” Dolokhov offered, looking up, immediately wishing he didn’t, because at his response, Anatole _blushed,_ curling in on himself, ducking his head.

“Well, um, I don’t think that’s quite necessary—”

Dolokhov raised his eyebrows, closing the book in his hands and stepping over to the desk. Anatole’s face turned redder still, red like wine. At once, it was almost as if this was just another one of Anatole’s girls, a play thing, worth not a second glance, before the pining and the love and— _composure._

“Do not judge me too terribly, _mon cher._ ” Dolokhov turned to read the letter, shaking the dread from his gut.

 

_Natalie,_

_Since the opera I have loved you madly, madly. Your beauty is like a diamond necklace, priceless, your eyes like rain puddles—_

 

Dolokhov shoved the letter away, laughing, “eyes like rain puddles” running through his thoughts.

“Oh, dear, Anatole, this is _horrible._ I can’t even finish it.”

“I told you, Fedya, I am useless with words.”

Anatole gave a guilty smile, his face still blotchy red and pink; it spread across his nose and went down his neck; Dolokhov tried not to acknowledge how endearing it seemed to him. He threw Anatole a disgusted look, half-mocking, half-serious, and crumpled up the page.

“I could write something better in five minutes, Anatole.”

In response, Anatole pouted, pouted like the eight year-old in him still that knew how to be just pitiful enough to get what he desired.

“If you feel so strongly about this, how about you do what I requested of you: write me a love letter? Please?”

Dolokhov looked at him, looked at the want in his eyes, and sighed internally.

“Easily,” Dolokhov said, bending over the desk, flushing as Anatole brightened beside him, pleased to get what he wanted. Dolokhov paused for a minute, tapping the pen against his cheek, before writing:

 

_Natalie,_

_Hesitant as I am to say it, it is not untrue when I say that my thoughts have been most solely occupied of you—_

 

“Oh, stop, don’t say that, it’s nothing like me.”

Dolokhov sighed, turning to glare at Anatole, reaching for another paper.

 

_No matter who I see, no matter what sparkling women approach me, I am most—_

 

“Sparkling? Really?”

“Eyes like rain puddles.” Anatole blushed, he needed to stop doing that, a mess of color across his face, composure, composure...

 

_Hear my soul speak: the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service—_

 

“Ridiculous.”

“It’s Shakespeare, Anatole.”

“I would never read such senselessness.”

Dolokhov grumbled and tried again, running his fingers along the edges of the new paper he reached for.

 

 _I cannot care about anyone but_ you, _my dearest, Anato—_

 

Dolokhov paused, staring at the half-finished word, the pen still pressing ink into the paper, blotting the “o.” He could hear the blood pounding in his ear—stupid, stupid, stupid. Composure.

“What, wait, why are you throwing it away?”

“It was silly.” Dolokhov’s feet seemed to have turned to stone, his fingers filled with metal. How could he have been so stupid, so careless? How could he have let himself?

 _Damn Anatole and his blushing, his childish charm, and “eyes like rain puddles,"_  he thought. _Enrapturing, all-consuming…_

Letters. He was supposed to be writing letters. Dolokhov took a deep breath; sick came in with it, the painful remembrance of what he was doing, writing love letters _for_ , not _to,_ the one he—composure.

 

_I am utterly and completely entranced by you, you, you, Natalie—_

 

“That’s not horrible. I like the repetition. Just… be simpler. Blunt.”

Blunt. Dolokhov pondered this; how to be as straight-forward as possible, how to state Anatole’s… infatuation? Love? Lust? best as possible. If he squinted, maybe “Natalie” was “Anatole.”

 

 _Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, I must love you or die! Natalie, Natalie,_ Natalie, _if you love me say yes—_

 

“I like it.”

“I don’t know, Anatole, this feels… weird.”

“I like it, and no one will know these are your words. Go ahead and finish it.”

The letter is finished, and there is a brutal, deep honesty in the frigid words that strikes Dolokhov hard. It’s undoubtedly the worst love letter he’s ever written—not that he has spent much time composing them, not at all—yet it also screams “Anatole.” Charming, demanding, wanting Anatole.

It was no matter to Dolokhov, the potential horridity of the letter, as long as Anatole was happy. Even if the words made his stomach churn, the prospect of Natasha’s eyes reading those words, never directed at her, even if it sent acid through his veins. As long as Anatole was happy. Dolokhov would do anything for him, this was no exception, he would do _anything—_

Composure.

 

**V.**

Dolokhov was trying and trying to convince Anatole to _stop_ (“This plan is horrible, so much will be destroyed, foolish boy, how do you not care?”) when Anatole hushed him, exclaiming: “Go to hell now! It’s the very devil here, feel how it beats—”

Dolokhov was still trying and trying to prevent the affair from happening when Anatole cut himself off and took Dolokhov’s hand, pressing it to his chest, and everything around Dolokhov abruptly turned very, very _quiet._

His thoughts were frozen as he felt the heat of Anatole’s skin through his undershirt and the heartbeat that clattered in his chest. Anatole’s fingers were curling around Dolokhov’s hand instinctively, his eyes wide and sweat shining on his face as he stared at Dolokhov. All the panic had paused, and Dolokhov could still feel his heartbeat, faster and faster and faster; Anatole took his hand off his chest, and the moment was over, though Dolokhov had not moved but to breathe, and Anatole’s fingers were still curled around his hand.

“ _Mon cher, mon cher_ ,” Anatole started saying, though Dolokhov was still processing what had happened, his mind crackling with static. " _Quel pied, quel regard…_ ” Anatole released his hand, muttering something to himself. Dolokhov blinked slowly; _wake up, wake up._

“Wait. It’s time,” Anatole suddenly declared, “the driver is here, Balaga is here! Let’s go, let’s go, I must see Natasha _.”_

Dolokhov nodded, and the world started sliding back into place, gears working again. His head felt dizzy, out of place, bewildered by the affection and spontaneity. He could still feel Anatole’s heartbeat pumping against his hand, a phantom, the warmth of his chest.

Composure.

 

**VI.**

 

“You will not enter my house, _scoundrel!_ "

Marya Dmitrievna’s cry seemed to have split the sky and woken all of Moscow. Anatole froze on the porch steps, his skin paling to match the dirtied snow. Marya made a quick step towards him, and Dolokhov blinked himself back to his senses, beginning to move.

The snow, frozen and packed into icy blades, jabbed against his shins as Dolokhov ran through the courtyard, turned the corner, and went up to the porch. Anatole had managed to regain some sort of movement and was stumbling backwards down the steps when Dolokhov reached him, finding his hand and clumsily pulling him back. Marya wasted no time, arms extended and lashing for Anatole with talons as fingers; her eyes flashed lynx-like, but Anatole had finally found his legs and was fleeing alongside Dolokhov, the distance between _le terrible dragon_ and themselves growing.

A noise akin to a screech struck their ears; Marya had halted and watched them as they rushed down the courtyard pathway and through the gate. She was hunched in a way that made her only seem more intimidating, larger, and dangerous—her eyes gleamed and her hand was extended, pointing straight at Anatole and his aghast expression. The gate slammed with a large metal _clang_ and Dolokhov ushered themselves into the waiting troika. Balaga, not needing a cue, tore back down the Nikitsky Boulevard. Marya shrunk into the darkness, but her black eyes seemed permanently trained on them as they sped down the road and out of sight.

They turned a corner, and suddenly all the immediate tension and fear seemed to evaporate. It was quiet, save the rumbling of the wheels on the road and their heavy breathing. Dolokhov’s mind raced, his pupils large as he tried to take in everything that had just happened. Dolokhov kept a death-grip on Anatole’s hand, pushing his own hair back and looking at him. Anatole’s face was still devoid of color, aside his lips and corners of his eyes, which were stained a faint pink. Forgetting himself, Dolokhov ran a hand along Anatole’s side, smoothed his uniform, adjusted a button, caressed then felt the cold of his cheek, let it settle on the back of his neck, under the collar. Adrenaline seemed palpable in the space between them. The troika bounced against the cobblestones.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Well, _mon cher,_ I cannot feel my fingers.”

Realization struck Dolokhov at this moment, and a blush crept up his neck; he hoped and prayed that it mixed in with the flush of stress. He loosened his grip, but did not let go, drawing their connected hands closer to him.

“Aside that, are you alright?”

Anatole gulped, blanching again, and nodded dismissively.

“I must see Natasha.”

“Anatole!” Dolokhov exclaimed, and Anatole stared at him curiously, as if he did not understand the ludicrousy of his statement.

“Anatole, all is ruined! All that remains of this blasted plan is the troika. The Rostovs and Mary Dmitrievna _know,_ and they will never let Natasha out of their sight ever again! All of this is over.”

Anatole avoided Dolokhov’s gaze, looking down to his own lap.

“Don’t say such absurdity. It will be fine, as long as I see Natasha. It will be fine, it will be fine—”

“You cannot seriously say that! They are going to hunt you down, and one of them will challenge you to a duel, you will be _killed_ , and everything will be over—”

“I just need to see Natasha, I need to talk to her, and it will be _fine—_ ”

“Anatole! Anatole, look at me. Please.”

He did, and his eyes were more vulnerable than Dolokhov had ever seen, and he wanted nothing more than to hold the scared boy, to reassure him that it would all be all right.

“Breathe. Anatole, I’m sorry.” Anatole obeyed, taking in large gulps of air. He was suddenly much closer to Dolokhov, and a fluttering sensation rose in Dolokhov’s stomach as he realized his situation, mind clearing.

Their hands were clasped together. He felt Anatole’s heartbeat on his neck. His skin was red. Anatole was looking at him, was _really_ looking at him, eyes bloodshot and red like wine, still holding that streetlight shine—those faint, pink lips—Dolokhov wanted nothing more than to kiss them—it would be insensitive, wouldn’t it, but they were so close to his—his breath was gentle, hot on Dolokhov’s face—could he kiss them? Could he blame it on the adrenaline? They were so close— _composure,_ dammit, _composure—_

He leaned in.

The troika then pulled a hard corner and he was jerked to the side; his hand slid off of Anatole’s neck. Anatole still stared at where he had been; his face looked as if he realized that he had missed something critical, but could not place it. Dolokhov’s stomach dropped to his feet. Recovering himself, he grasped Anatole’s arm with his free hand, shaking him slightly. Anatole blinked.

“We cannot rampage around Moscow forever. We need to find somewhere safe. Anatole—Anatole… just, just stay with me,” Dolokhov hesitated, “You cannot see Natasha again. I’m sorry.”

Anatole bit his lip, and, to Dolokhov’s surprise, nodded.

“Okay, there is surely somewhere we can go, somewhere we can hide; it can’t be the Club, that’s all too obvious, not Komoneno’s...”

“I want to see my sister.”

Dolokhov opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He furrowed his brows, thinking it over ( _but Pierre, what about Pierre?_ ) before responding.

“Okay.”

Balaga reared off the instant Dolokhov and Anatole stumbled out of the troika, woozy off of adrenaline and anxiety. Still hand-in-hand, Dolokhov gripped Anatole’s so fiercely his own skin was white at the knuckles. Yellow light trickled out of the Bezukhov house. The doorknob’s harsh rap echoed across the courtyard.

Hélène opened the door instead of a typical servant. Her face collapsed from its worry into fierce relief at the sight of the two. She drew Anatole in quickly and broke their grasp; Dolokhov’s hand ached as he stretched his fingers. Hélène ushered Anatole in behind her, scolding him as he tried to speak: “Anatole, come in, yes, Anatole, _hush._ My husband has left, don’t you worry, I will explain it to him, it will be fine. Now, go sit in the drawing-room. _Hush,_  I tell you...”

Hélène turned back to Dolokhov, who moved to enter the house. She held out her arm, fingers splayed in a gentle “stop” that he ignored until she spoke his name. Her fingers pressed lightly against his chest.

“Dolokhov… I think it is best if you don’t come in. I don’t want you to be tied up into this any more than you already are. I sincerely doubt there is any chance of calming my Pierre if you are also here, all things considered.” Her eyes drifted down to his where he was nursing his hand. When she looked back up, her expression was soft, gentle, unnatural to her.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she whispered, and something acute pierced his gut. She stepped forward to kiss his forehead, and his face fell. “What will be, will be _,_ and you cannot.”

He winced at that; in response, she ghosted the back of her hand against his cheek.

“Not with that particular Kuragin, anyways. You could always try Ippolit.”

Dolokhov gave her a small, stiff smile.

“Only if I wanted to give up all dignity.”

It’s Hélène’s turn to grin, and she kisses him once more, on the cheek this time, drawing back into the house.

“I’ll take care of our Anatole. Now go.”

The door closed silently, and Dolokhov was alone.

Composure.

 

**VII.**

“Anatole.”

Hélène’s voice was firm as she emerged in the drawing-room. Anatole stared at her, and she sighed heavily, collapsing elegantly onto the sofa.

“Well.” A statement, not a question.

“ _Le terrible dragon_ is awake and furious tonight,” Anatole answered vaguely. Hélène ran a hand through her loose hair.

“So, everything is ruined.”  
“No,” Anatole frowned, “I just need to see Natasha. I need to be with her, once she is with me, all will be fine—”

“You are _not_ seeing that girl again! Anatole, you have ruined her… this plan was a disaster and it ended as such.” She paused, wincing. “My husband, he is looking for you, and he will have no hesitations in giving you what you deserve for that when he returns. Now, I will try to calm him but… Anatole, Anatole, my foolish, _foolish_ brother.”

“Why would you help me if you thought so lowly of me?”

“Because we are siblings. There is never any preventing you from going about with your schemes, so it is my duty to at least try to keep you safe.”

A tense silence developed between them, raising in intensity as it continued. Anatole scowled, biting his lip, his leg tapping incessantly. Occasionally, some kind of poignant loss would spread over his face, and he would whisper the name “Natasha” to himself, wincing. Hélène stared at the ceiling, her motions slow. Suddenly, she stirred, eyes alert and sad.

“Fedya, as well. Oh, everything is at an end.”

“What do you mean, Fedya?” Anatole replied quickly, happy to have some sort of topic change. The lightness that appeared on his face disappeared immediately, however, as his sister glared at him fiercely.

“I imagine you did not notice, being too wrapped up in yourself and your own affairs, but he is at a breaking point. I told you that you would ruin your friendship if you continued as you were. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Anatole straightened in his seat, quite like a rooster, rustling its feathers to seem larger than it is. “ _He_ , unlike you, took care of me, did not say such things in such a tone. He took care of me.” A heavy emotion poured over his face at this thought, though it was not one of anger—it rounded his eyes, softened his features. Hélène scoffed.

“It is a miracle our poor Fedya has not yet keeled over trying to care for you. How could anyone survive being in love with such a scoundrel?”

“You flatter me,” Anatole joked, though his tone was flat and his eyebrows were furrowed. The word “love” curled on his lips; he frowned at himself.

“Anatole—”

The door rang, cutting her off, and Anatole’s stomach dropped.

“It is my husband,” Hélène said, standing up and moving towards the drawing-room entrance.

The anger Pierre had filled the room before he even entered it, and Anatole stood, determined to maintain a look of jauntiness.

“Anatole—must speak to you,” Pierre growled, motioning for him to follow. In this state of infuriation, he quite resembled a bear; Pierre was hunched, his broad chest heaving from the cold, and his fists were curling and uncurling methodically. Anatole took a deep breath and lilted over to him, his body language casual, his aura tingling with anxiety. Hélène watched him meet his fate with a stoic expression, a thousand thoughts speeding by in her eyes.

Anatole was significantly paler when he returned, rubles for a passage to Petersburg in hand and a look of blanched horror on his face. Pierre led him to the door, but before Anatole could be free of the Bezukhovs, his sister found him again, grabbing his arm and whispering something into his ear.

“You are a dead man to the Countess and all who know her, brother, but you are not yet with Fedya. _Fix it._ ”

Then out the door he went, and all was silent.

_Fix it. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it._

So, fix it Anatole did, in the only way he knew how—he has never been a very eloquent man.

 

**VIII.**

_Dolokhov,_

 

 _I have settled in quite nicely with all of the_ femmes (et leurs pieds) _of Petersburg, have no doubt. The distraught of the entire Rostov affair means very little to me in this large city, miles away; even the most gossipy of women have heard not a word of the whole ordeal, not yet._

_I hope, in blunt terms, that you have recovered from the distress that night caused you. It was quite worrying to see you in such a way; you were so red I was nearly convinced you would explode._

_It is indeed strange; I have never seen you in such a state before. I daresay I nearly lost all feeling in my hand, and I must request of you next time that you pay a bit more attention to your reflexes. Very strange… it almost seemed to me that, before Balaga’s haphazard driving interrupted you, you aimed to advance on me as one would advance_ à une femme _. Do try to limit your alcohol consumption before our next adventurous plight. I would hate for anything to become of your reputation._

_In any manner, you must make it your goal to come see me in Petersburg. It has only been a week, yet the weeks seem so much longer when there is so much that fills them._

 

 _Write,_ mon cher, _do write,_

_Anatole_

 


	2. alternative ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In place of a letter, there's a knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this replaces anatole's letter to dolokhov. basically.

**ALTERNATE VIII**

 

It was early, though, depending on who one asks, it was also very, very late; the sun was just infringing upon the night, turning the sky the sleepy grey that comes before the proper sunrise. Dolokhov had not slept at all, choosing to stay in the drawing-room of his home, nursing himself with alcohol and pitying all that he felt. His hand still buzzed from pain and exhilaration, and he examined it with melancholy.

What of his actions in Balaga’s troika? What had he been thinking? How foolish it was, trying to _kiss_ the boy after everything that had happened. No one in their right mind would ever reciprocate, ever appreciate such an ill-timed chase; bitterly, Dolokhov pondered that all of his relationship with Anatole was of this nature: ill-timed and unfortunate. So much for composure.

Even worse—and he needed to take a particularly heavy swig as he processed this–even worse, _if_ there would ever be anything required, he would accept it in a heartbeat. All of his struggles, all the pain and frustration would quickly mean nothing; how childish, how vain, how silly!

Oh, all the stupidity, all the money, all the effort he had poured into Anatole Kuragin! What good had come of it? The only pieces of affection he managed to find were forced and came with more grief than happiness. It was pointless, a futile pursuit—

There was a knock at the door.

Dolokhov closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose, swallowing any last immediate sentiments about Anatole and remnants of his drink before slowly making his way to the entrance. Dread pulled at his stomach; nothing good ever comes from a knock at the door at this hour. A thousand horrid, ludicrous situations ran through his head: Marya Dmitrievna had single-handedly killed Anatole, his mother was ill or dying, the Russians had lost yet another batch of troops, Rostov was back. He shook the thoughts away and pulled at the handle.

Anatole was fidgeting at the doorstep when Dolokhov saw him; his foot tapped to an irregular rhythm, his teeth bit his pink lips, and his eyes were distressed and darted around erratically. He looked up at Dolokhov, however, and all the stress fell from him, relief washing over his face as an easy smile appeared.

“Anatole,” Dolokhov said, concern and annoyance clear in his voice.

“Dolokhov,” Anatole mirrored, stepping into his house. “You’re here, thank God. I leave soon—for Petersburg, you know—but I needed to see you beforehand. Are you well? You were so fretful earlier tonight…”

“Anatole, I’m not really up for seeing you right now.” The frigidity made Anatole wince, wounded.

“I’m so tired. Earlier this night… oh, Anatole, I cannot talk about that, or anything right now.” Dolokhov sighed; the entirety of Moscow was asleep and peaceful aside the _one_ person he had been pitifully lamenting all night. His head throbbed.

“Oh, but it is just of your behavior earlier that I am here for,” Anatole cuts him off before Dolokhov can speak again, and a horrible worry overtook Dolokhov’s nerves. His eyes widened as Anatole paused, searching for the right words.

“You seemed so _concerned_ , Fedya, so concerned and affectionate… a bit like a mother hen—” Anatole scowled at himself “—oh, damn it all.” He took a deep breath in and continued.

“After the duel, Hélène told me something that I couldn’t get out of my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more it weighed on me. I didn’t believe it, not at first, but you’ve done so much, raised the money, got the troika, got the priest, wrote the love letters, helped me with the entire torrid affair. You did everything I needed, even when you doubted me, even when I was wrong, even when I could tell you loathed the very thought of doing so… who would do this all for _friendship?_ ”

“I think you should go,” Dolokhov said firmly. His chest was getting tight; it hurt to breathe. Anatole needed to leave, by God, Dolokhov was about to kiss him or kill him; he _couldn’t_ deal with this right now, he _couldn’t, composure_ … shaking his head, Dolokhov started to push Anatole out the door.

“Wait, what, _wait!”_

Anatole grabbed Dolokhov above the elbows, staring at him with those glittering eyes, just as vulnerable as they had been earlier that night, before Dolokhov had tried to— _foolish, foolish, foolish_... Dolokhov shut his eyes, grimacing. Anatole knew, he overstepped his boundaries, it was all over, all destroyed—

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I tried, I tried to hide it. It only gets worse.”

Anatole blinked, a sense of realization coming over him. _He’s got it all wrong._ A look of fed-up determination ran over his face and he tightened his grip on Dolokhov’s arms, steadying himself before he cried out: “Oh, I am the most horrible with words!”

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he kissed him.

Frankly, it was not a particularly _pleasurable_ kiss. Anatole came on too forcefully, knocking their teeth together, and he tasted like sweat, anxiety, and fear; their noses clashed painfully, and Dolokhov still had the poignant, heavy traces of liquor on his lips. Of course, first kisses are never quite perfect, quite desirable in their nature; however, it was very difficult for Dolokhov to mind. Light seemed to explode in his veins.

“Did you mean that?” he asked, breathless, as soon as they broke apart. Anatole nodded, smiling, his cheeks flushed; nodded as if it was the simplest answer in the world. Dolokhov responded by kissing him in turn, gentler now, careful to avoid rattling their teeth or bumping their noses, though it could barely be considered a kiss for all the grinning he was doing. He sighed, a storm of emotions overtaking him at once, and he let his hands settle on Anatole’s waist, his own face nestle in the crook of his neck.

“When do you leave for Petersburg?” he asked after a collective moment, tilting his head up so their foreheads rested together. Anatole hummed.

“Ten o’clock this morning. You know, they say Petersburg is for lovers.”

Dolokhov grins at Anatole and the ludicrousy of that statement, kissing him again, quickly, lightly.

Anatole laughs in quiet delight.

 

Dolokhov was no fool. Even delirious with fatigue, shaky with alcohol, and—at last, oh, at last—content with love, he knew that Anatole was destined for nothing but brevity. There would be women. With a Kuragin, there would _always_ be women. He could not get his hopes up, he could not—

But Anatole called him “Fedya,” voice was muddled by drowsiness and giddiness, soft and quiet. He curled up on Dolokhov’s side, head against his ribs, legs intertwined, half-asleep at a quarter to ten, supposed to be en route to Petersburg. He was the picture of everything Dolokhov had wanted, pined, agonized over, and in this time, with the overcast sunlight streaking into the room and gentle warmth in, on Dolokhov’s chest, he couldn’t help but thinking: perhaps everything would be all right.

Perhaps this was composure.


	3. anatole's love letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draft one of Natasha's love letter. You know, the "eyes like rain puddles" one.

_Natalie,_

_Since the opera I have loved you madly, madly. Your beauty is like a diamond necklace, priceless, your eyes are like rain puddles. Your love is like an ushanka, keeping me warm from the Russian winter, and without you, I am horribly cold._

_I need to see you again, my Natalie, to hold you so tightly that we both burst. Love me, Natalie, say yes to my proposal: I am to sweep you away, like a broom, out of the darkness and cold, so we can stay warm for eternity._

_I await, my dear,_

_Anatole_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was physically painful to write


End file.
